


Run

by LunaCatriona



Series: Waves That Rolled You Under [2]
Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, Holiday, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-02 01:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8645092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaCatriona/pseuds/LunaCatriona
Summary: "And I will run until my feet no longer run no more; and I will kiss until my lips no longer feel no more; and I will love until my heart, it aches; and I will love until my heart, it breaks; and I will love until there's nothing more to live for." - "Run" by Amy MacDonald.Serena and Bernie, in the aftermath of Bernie's PTSD diagnosis, take a break to Scotland, but all does not go as planned. Bernie is running to keep from standing still, while Serena is standing still to keep from running. One foot in front of the other just doesn't work sometimes. Let's just hope they don't lose one another on the way, or themselves, for that matter.Second part of "Waves That Rolled Under" series of stories.Trigger warning for PTSD, depression, mental illness, suicide, etc.





	1. Furry Boots

“Touch that radio again and you'll be walking over the border!” snapped Serena.

Bernie Wolfe smiled. It always amazed her how the world could crash around Serena Campbell's feet and she would remain calm, and yet if someone fiddled with her car radio, they got their head bitten off. The lengths Serena had gone to in order to get this time away for them, though…if she didn't know Serena better, she'd have said it was deliberately sweet. She had even managed to find someone with whom Jason was comfortable to take care of him in their absence – and that was no mean feat.

The countryside flew past Bernie as she stared out the window. It was beautiful. A world away from Holby, and a universe away from Afghanistan.

And as idyllic as it was, Bernie had several reservations that had been bugging her during these long hours in the car. “What if I have _problems_?” she asked quietly. “What if the medication doesn't agree with me? What if-”

“You know, funnily enough, Bernie, the NHS does in fact extend into Scotland.”

This was perfectly true, but Bernie could not help but worry. This ordeal with mental illness had alerted her to her own fragility. It had reminded her that the decaying of her mind could kill her as dead as any bomb or bullet, but it would just take longer, and it would be more painful to endure. So she wasn't all too comforted that she was in a different country from her own GP. However, she was with Serena, and that seemed to make up for it. Though Serena was no professional in the field of mental health, she seemed to know Bernie scarily well. It was almost enough to make Bernie run in the opposite direction, but she had done that before and all it did was hurt them both.

There were things Bernie could not even hope of disguising from Serena. She didn't quite understand why that fact never stopped her from trying it anyway. It was almost an instinctive reaction to her hurt, to hide it from Serena, even though Serena herself had told her to stop it. She couldn't do that.

Of course, it would have been easier to cut herself off from Serena completely. It might have spared her the hassle of taking care of a woman who was big enough and old enough to look after herself. Or, at least, she ought to have been.

At present, she was on her first week of medication, while awaiting an appointment for therapy she didn't reckon could work. Talking made these things real, after all, and wasn't it better to leave them outside of her real world?

If she said that out loud, she knew Serena would protest, and deafeningly. In all honesty, Bernie knew she would do the same if Serena were the one to say that about herself, but she had a hard time holding the same care for herself as she did for Serena. She was not as good a person as Serena was. She was not as loved, because she was nowhere near as lovable. She was not worth nearly as much as Serena Campbell was.

Bernie watched the world go by, as they moved steadily northwards, and with each mile, though she ventured to the unknown, she left a little more stress behind her. It was still there and it still existed, but it existed further away from her. Maybe it couldn't be forgotten, but it could be ignored for a little while. It was almost like she could outrun her demons. She was finally running faster than they were, and they might never catch her again. She couldn't really afford to stop running, because if she did and she was caught, she would not survive again. She _could_ not survive again.

“I hope we don't look like stupid tourists,” grumbled Serena. “Sometimes I find Scots quite difficult to understand.”

“We understand Raf well enough,” Bernie pointed out fairly.

“You've never met his brother,” snorted Serena. “Besides, Glasgow is the least of your worries. Wait until you get to Aberdeenshire and tell me you have a bloody clue what they're saying.”

Bernie smirked slightly. She had served with a young man from Peterculter, so she had learned to understand some of it from him, but he had died five years ago. She wasn't sure how much she would actually remember.

That boy had been unintelligible to half the people he served with. To anyone who spoke normal English, his choice of words was senseless, and yet words like “footery”, “bide,” and “quine” made perfect sense to him. It had been quite charming, really, even if inconvenient at times. It reminded her that the United Kingdom she fought for was so much more diverse than the little bubble of middle-class England she grew up in.

He'd only been twenty years of age when he was killed in action. In fact, he had only been a month short of his twenty-first birthday. She could recall trying to save him, desperately trying to stem the bleeding and repair his liver, but it was never going to work. It didn't stop her from thinking she ought to have done more, though. That she ought to have done better. When she had returned home, she had gone to a memorial service in his honour, and met his parents and two sisters. She had awkwardly accepted their thanks and gratitude for her efforts in saving him, for having his back on the front line. She listened to them say how highly their son and brother spoke of her, all the while feeling like their praise was undeserved. She felt she had been lying to them, cheating them into thinking she was a better person than she was.

This idea of being brave wasn't real at all. In the conventional sense, she was brave. She went to war. But that wasn't enough for her to be a brave person. Brave people didn't crumble once they were out of the warzone. Brave people did not cower away from the idea that someone so amazing had fallen in love with them. Bernie was courageous unless it was a physical or intellectual battle. If it were an emotional or psychological war, she was the biggest coward she knew.

Why had she never recognised that before? She had been cowardly enough to settle into a marriage she had never been entirely sure she wanted. It was never a bad marriage, but it wasn't what sixteen-year-old Bernie had hoped for. Back then, when she still thought courage was a trait dominant in her, she had hoped she'd be brave and come out, and be free to marry whomever she happened to fall in love with. But she had not been brave. She had caved quite easily, and settled for marriage to Marcus because, when it came to dealing with everyone she knew, it was the easiest and simplest thing she could have done.

All this mess, because she was a coward.

“Bernie?” Serena said, quietly. “Bernie, are you alright?”

Bernie looked around, and she realised too late that tears had spilled over onto her face. She hastily wiped them away, not particularly keen on explaining them, and smiled at Serena.

Serena did not smile back. Instead, she remained silent, but pulled into a small service station near Carlisle. “What are we doing?” Bernie asked cautiously.

“Getting something to eat. I'm starving. Plus, it's time for your medication,” she added; Serena had been keeping an annoyingly close eye on Bernie and, though she completely understood why, it didn't make it any less irritating that there was nothing she could get past Serena at the moment.

Bernie sighed and got out of the car. “I'll drive from here to Edinburgh,” she said. “You'll need a break.”

Serena said, “Thanks,” and led Bernie inside, where they sat down and looked over what they could eat. Bernie was not very hungry at all, but she knew Serena would be the first to point out that she definitely needed to eat, because hunger could only add to her risk of depression. It was something Bernie believed that Serena must have learned the hard way, and it was possibly why she was so averse to letting herself become too hungry, even now.

Bernie pondered that, as she ate a cheese and ham toastie. She did not ask Serena about her experiences. It had been so long ago, in a different era in her life, and Bernie didn't want to drag it up and cause her pain. That didn't mean she wasn't curious – she most definitely was – but she was not going to hurt Serena just to satisfy that curiosity.

“Why were you crying?” Serena finally rounded on her, while tucking into a bowl of cock-a-leekie soup and a plate of bread.

Bernie looked down at her own food and decided to avoid answering by opening up her bag and taking out her box of medication. She silently put the pill in her mouth and swallowed, hoping in vain that Serena would forget by the time she was able to speak again. However, Serena reached out and took Bernie's hand in hers, trying to get her to open up. “Serena...”

“Bernie, please,” Serena gently urged her. “How do you expect to get better if you never tell anyone what's wrong?”

“You don't want to know.”

“I think you'll find I do.”

Bernie stared at her, wondering what was going on in Serena's head right now. She must have believed this was helpful, but her reasoning was unclear to Bernie. After all, Serena was the one who stood by the value of “good old British reserve.” Didn't that apply here?

And just like that, the argument played out in her head. It wasn't even really an argument. Bernie knew exactly what Serena would say if she brought up her belief that reservedness could be a good thing: “Not if it's going to get you killed.”

This fear Serena had that Bernie would end up dead was unsettling. It meant that there was a level of emotion Serena had attached to her that she had not known before now. That moment in the waiting room of the medical centre echoed in her mind, and she could not help but wonder if loving her was bad for Serena. Deep down, of course, Bernie knew that was barely a question; she was almost certain that loving her was bad for Serena. The problem was that no matter how hard she tried, how much she held back her own feelings for her best friend, she had no success in pushing Serena away. She had pretty much given up on that tactic – Serena was too stubborn for it to work.

So, for Serena, so that she didn't spend the whole day wondering and letting it eat her up, Bernie answered the question. “I served with a soldier from Aberdeenshire,” she explained, her voice only a murmur. She was slightly amazed Serena could even hear her. “He spoke Doric. Drove half of us crazy, but he couldn't help it. That was just how he spoke and there wasn't much we could do but learn to understand him the best we could. We always called him Furry Boots. Unoriginal, I know, but it kept us laughing.”

Serena gently smiled. “I see. Do you still keep up with him?”

“He was killed,” Bernie said tonelessly. “Five years ago.”

“I'm sorry,” Serena answered immediately, as Bernie had known she would, with a tight squeeze of her hand.

Unable to accept the condolence, mostly because she still felt she had not been good enough to save him, Bernie shrugged the kindness off. “It is what it is.”

She said no more about the matter, and Serena seemed to acknowledge that the discussion was closed, so they finished their food in silence. On the way out, laden with a bottle of cola and a chocolate bar each, Serena handed Bernie the car keys.

Bernie climbed into the driver's seat, glad for the distraction that focusing on the road between Carlisle and Edinburgh would bring her.


	2. Safe

“Bloody hell, how do they survive with these roads?!” Bernie demanded loudly, hitting the edge of the steering wheel in temper. It wasn't often she lost her temper while driving but this was nonsense. This was enough to drive even Henrik Hanssen up a wall. Though the satnav told her exactly where to go, the roads were old, narrow and steep, and the people using them gave no allowance for unfamiliarity. “It's four in the afternoon, for God's sake! How is it like this at four in the afternoon?!”

When they next stopped at a set of traffic lights, Serena reached down and fumbled in her handbag, and pulled out a plastic bottle and a small pill. “You alright?” Bernie asked, now slightly worried.

“Yeah,” Serena smiled, as she unscrewed the cap of the bottle. “Just a headache. All the driving took its toll, I guess,” she reasoned. With that, she swallowed the pill with some water. “Light's green,” she nodded out of the window. And the light was indeed green, and there was a very impatient driver behind them making it known that they didn't appreciate Bernie paying more attention to Serena than she did to the road in front of her.

Eventually – though not without much swearing on Bernie's part – they arrived at their hotel. Overlooked by the castle, it was in a busy but charming area. The receptionist, a woman of around forty with long dark hair and blue eyes, checked them in, and a porter took them to their room. Bernie had been forewarned that the rooms Serena had booked, where she had booked into hotels and not self-catering, were double rooms to share, because of availability issues when booking mere days before actually arriving. It wasn't something that particularly bothered Bernie.

What _did_ bother Bernie was this concern Serena continuously had for her. This need to know she was okay, when Bernie was not entirely sure she could ever really be okay again. One thing was for sure – Serena couldn't fix this. Not really. This was something broken inside of Bernie, and it might never mend, but if ever it did, it had to be Bernie that mended it.

This was one of these things that just were. It was not to be fought, combated like a common militant, but accepted and treated so that life was just about bearable. And if life never was bearable again, she still had her Plan B in the back of her mind. Elesha Sulless, as Bernie had recently come to understand, was not wrong when she endorsed the noisy yet silent method of suicide she had chosen for herself. It was not a case of being the better soldier. It was more a case of knowing when to give in to what was destined to take her.

There had been a time she would have followed Serena's orders. They were, after all, the orders she would once have given to herself. They were the orders she still would have given to her children, or to Serena, or to Jason, or Elinor, or anyone else she found to be in this situation. Just not herself. These were orders she was not capable of following, and the failure to follow orders was what killed her inside.

“It's a nice room,” Serena said, and the thump of her suitcase on the floor brought Bernie out of herself with a start.

Bernie's eyes found Serena, and, where the sun failed to in its absence, that smile lit up the room. It was one of the only beacons of light she had left to her.

“Let's go for a walk,” Bernie suggested. “I've been sitting down all day.” Serena smiled slightly, though Bernie could almost see the x-ray vision in those dark brown eyes, and she knew then that she was not hiding herself well enough. She wasn't about to ruin Serena's holiday because she was weak-minded fool.

They walked until dusk, when they pulled themselves into a small restaurant on the Royal Mile. “Angels with Bagpipes...” Bernie read the name of the place. “Sounds like Scots pride at its finest.”

She recalled how that boy from Peterculter had played _Highland Cathedral_ one night, mere weeks before he was killed. Not on full pipes, but on a chanter. Still...there was an angel with bagpipes. They did exist. She smiled sadly, knowing Serena was not looking, and allowed herself another moment's remembrance for her fallen comrade. She'd not been expecting to be reminded of him so often.

Once seated, Bernie could only remain quiet while Serena ordered wine, and they looked over the menu. She feared that her emotion might show itself up in her voice if she spoke, and she didn't want to give Serena any indication that there was anything wrong.

When the waitress returned, Serena ordered haggis, followed by venison. Caught by surprise, having been lost in her own head, Bernie ordered haggis and then salmon, because they were the only two things she knew they were sure to serve, and she didn't really want venison.

The problem she faced now was that she couldn't exactly sit here and say nothing at all over dinner without arousing Serena's suspicions, but equally, if she spoke, she knew Serena would pick up on the fact she was not content in the slightest. It was not something there was no hope of getting past her, and Bernie wasn't even sure why she kept her futile attempts going. Hadn't she learned by now?

Obviously not.

It showed in the way that Serena watched her, how she searched her. “Do we need to take you to the doctor?” asked Serena. “Is the medication not agreeing with you?”

“No,” Bernie answered, clearing her throat as she did so. She swallowed back all her empty emotion and said, “No, no, it's fine. I'm fine.”

“Please don't lie to me,” Serena murmured. “It insults my intelligence.”

“I'm not,” Bernie said, and this time, she fixed on a smile.

Serena was not satisfied, and Bernie had no idea of how she could possibly pull the wool over Serena Campbell's eyes. It was an impossible feat, even for those who were thinking straight. Nobody, to Bernie's knowledge, had ever really managed it. She always found out, one way or the other. It was often hard to tell whether or not it was easier to just come out and say it, or to leave her to work it out for herself. But in this case, since Bernie felt incapable of coming out and saying it, she was going to have to do the latter.

The wine came, and she watched Serena watch her as she tried to judge whether or not Bernie was going to drink it or not. She had been told by her GP to avoid alcohol if possible, but she was in no mood to care about that. Besides, what harm could a little wine really do?

Serena's expression said it all. “Don't give me that look,” snapped Bernie. “I'd like to see you stop drinking just because a doctor told you to.”

“I'm not the one who might throw herself under a car if she does drink,” hissed Serena, keeping her voice down so as not to alert the whole restaurant to their dispute.

“I'm not going to throw myself under a car,” Bernie rolled her eyes. “They move too slowly in this damn city to do enough damage,” she smirked.

Serena glared at her. “That is not funny, Bernie.”

“Yes, it is,” Bernie sniggered. It was to her, anyway, even if Serena didn't find it amusing. Perhaps her sense of humour was becoming slightly morbid, but at least she was laughing at something.

Clearly, Serena disagreed, though, because she was sitting opposite her with a stony and unimpressed expression as Bernie took a deliberately long drink from her wine glass. As awful a person as it made her, there was some enjoyment in tormenting Serena, in reminding herself she was not the only person capable of feeling desperation. Logically, she knew a person didn't make two attempts on their own life unless they could feel desperation, but it was somewhat satisfying to see it in front of her.

The grin would not fade from her face; she was fairly impressed with her own wit. And opposite her, the look of infuriation did not leave Serena's face. Bernie didn't get what the big deal was. It was only a joke.

Unfortunately, it seemed to put a dampener on their evening. The food and wine was good – very good – but they ate in silence, for the most part. It wasn't that they had nothing to say to each other. That wasn't the problem at all, and Bernie knew it. The problem was that there was so much that needed said, with no way to say it. She knew Serena well enough to know the woman was bursting to tell her to go easy on the wine, to tell her what she was thinking, to take back her joke. But she wouldn't say it. The slight vindictiveness Bernie felt right now was enjoying that Serena now felt what she felt.

By the time they'd finished eating, Bernie had consumed three glasses of wine. Serena, uncharacteristically, had just one. Smugly, Bernie noted that the alcohol had had no more effect on her than it would have if she were not medicated.

When they left, the sky was dark, the roads lit by streetlamps, windows of flats and passing vehicles. Their silence remained, broken only by the urban noise. Bernie was almost glad for the peace and quiet, but after two hours, it felt increasingly toxic, a poisonous gas filling them up. “Spit it out, Serena,” she ordered when they got within sight of their hotel. “It's obviously irritating you.”

“What is?”

“Me,” Bernie snorted. “Me being able to smile.”

“No,” Serena contradicted, fumbling in her bag for the room key. “No, what irritates me is that you are joking about your own mortality when, not so long ago, Jac Naylor had to stop you from jumping off a multi-storey building!”

“Get a grip, Serena,” Bernie sighed. “It was a joke.” Serena didn't reply until they were in the corridor that their room was on.

“You think the thought of losing you is a joke?” she demanded. Bernie stopped walking. “Do you think my heart didn't break when I was told I had almost lost you?”

Bernie let out a laugh, but it was heartless. “You'd be fine without me. You were fine before me and you'll be fine after me. You're speaking nonsense.”

Serena stormed off ahead and unlocked the door. It was all Bernie could do to run after her and get in the room before the door slammed. She didn't quite understand why she was working Serena this much, but a positive side effect was that she was putting distance between them. She didn't want to become attached to Serena, and she didn't want Serena to become attached to her. Not when they both knew that each was in love with the other. It was simpler just to ignore that inconvenient truth.

“Serena,” groaned Bernie, “I'm the one with the suicidal tendencies. If anyone has the right to make jokes about it, it's me. Don't tell me you've never made a joke about your suicide attempts.”

“No, I didn't, because I respected the people who loved me, and whom I loved!”

“Do not try and liken one wise crack to a lack of respect for you! I respect you, and you know it.”

They held one another's gaze with intent, watching for the reaction. For the implosion of this friendship they had built. And suddenly, Bernie felt drunk. Maybe she _was_ drunk. Maybe she'd had one too many glasses of wine, or Serena was right about her drinking and taking medication at the same time. Or maybe she was drunk on the air she breathed. It felt so thin, yet so heavy.

In fact, it was hard to inhale it at all. What did go into her lungs didn't have much effect. It didn't lessen the dizziness.

“Bernie?” Serena said, this time with alarm rather than frustration. “Bernie, breathe!”

And Bernie tried. She really did. But it was useless. Her lungs were just kids' swimming armbands, filling to capacity with thin air, feeling like they might burst. Suddenly, Serena's hands were on her arms and those big brown eyes were filled with concern and helplessness, and all Bernie could do was feel guilty that she was breaking their world down with her weakness.

She was losing Serena, and it was her own fault. She was the one doing the pushing away. It was Bernie who refused to speak an honest word. It was Bernie who had deliberately goaded Serena over dinner with her insensitivity and her silence. It was all in pieces, and it was because she wasn't good enough. Not good enough for Serena. Not good enough to survive war unscathed. Not good enough to live.

“Let go of it,” pleaded Serena. “Breathe it out. You're safe, Bernie. Everything is okay. You're alright.” Serena's hand fell onto her Bernie's chest, and the pressure, the gesture of comfort and solidarity, seemed to help Bernie force the air out of her lungs. That hand undid the seal on the armbands and helped to squeeze the air our. “Okay, inhale.” Bernie obeyed. It was easier. “Exhale.” Again, Bernie did as she was told. “Inhale.” She breathed in. “Exhale.” The armbands completely deflated. Her breathing began to resume its normal rhythm.

Serena smiled in a moment of relief, but Bernie met her with a hard stare. Though she knew she was breaking them apart, she couldn't help doing it. Destroying what she had with Serena felt the safest route to take. There was nothing else to do. And Serena's smile faded. They returned to their disagreements and their ill feelings.

“I'm still angry with you,” Serena unwillingly said, because it was the safe thing to do.

“Oh, be like that, then,” Bernie snapped, because it was the safe thing to do. “I wish I had your capacity to live without a sense of humour. It seems so much fun.”

“You don't see it, do you?” Serena said, rifling through her suitcase for a pair of pyjamas. “You don't understand what I think when you say it.”

“Do you think I'm telepathic or something? Do I look like I can see inside your screwed up head?!”

“ _My_ screwed up head?!” Serena retorted, standing up with a pair of blue flannel pyjamas and he wash bag in her hands. “Have you _looked_ in a mirror recently?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm meant to be the insane one. I understand that perfectly well, thanks. Little Miss Fully-Recovered strikes again!”

A fierce and angry growl came out of Serena as she went into her handbag and rooted through it. She hurled a small box at Bernie with a roar of hurt and rage, and Bernie caught all of it. She stood with the box in her hands, looking down at it in shock.

How could she have missed this?


	3. Bravery

Serena turned her back to Bernie and pinched the bridge of her nose. She ought not to have brought this up. It was the very last thing that Bernie needed. The problem was that Serena was finding it increasingly difficult to stomach this assumption that she was fully recovered, that her demons were gone. Well, they weren't. Truthfully, they had popped up fairly frequently in the past twenty years. The difference between herself and Bernie was that she was familiar with the signs and she knew what to do about it, while Bernie was inexperienced and quite incompetent when it came to understanding her own mind.

Bernie finally spoke. “Antidepressants? Why didn't you tell me?!”

“Oh, yes,” Serena rolled her eyes, thankful Bernie couldn't see. “How would that have gone? 'Oh, by the way, Ms. Wolfe, I know you've been unwell but while you've been cutting me out and skulking around the place like a suicidal recluse for the past month, I've relapsed and I'm back on my medication.' That sounds brilliant, doesn't it?”

There wasn't a reply, so Serena – against herself – turned to face Bernie again, just to make sure she hadn't reacted too badly. Bernie just stood there, looking like she had seen a monster. The fear and shock in her expression were unmistakable, and it hit Serena like a punch to the gut. “I don't know what you want me to say, Bernie. It's an illness. I'm treating it. I'm so good at controlling it that the only person who knows is Hanssen, and that's only because I told him. You didn't need to know.”

Bernie walked over to the bed and sat down, the box still in her trembling hands. “How can you be so cold and clinical about it?”

“Thirty years and two near misses is a fairly good education.”

“But this is _you_ ,” Bernie argued. “It's happening to _you_.”

“That's why I can't afford to get emotional about it. I knew from the very start that I can never recover from it completely. I've had relapses every few years and this is how I've dealt with it. I relapsed when I divorced Edward. When I started at Holby and it was all going to hell. When my mother had her first stroke. When she died. It happens, and you have to be able to catch it before it catches you. Otherwise, you'll be dead before you know how it happened.”

It couldn't have been clearer that her approach to her own illness was blowing Bernie's mind, but Serena could only think that it was the only way she knew how to survive it. Maybe it wasn't the way everyone else did, but when she knew her depression was back, she could not survive if she got emotional and sentimental about it. She detached herself from it, so that it couldn't suffocate her. She didn't know how to do it any other way.

Bernie dropped the box onto the bed and walked out of the room, and it was Serena's instinct to run after her. Down the corridor, down the stairs, into the hotel's bar. “Bernie!” she exclaimed when she finally caught up. “Bernie, don't do this.”

Bernie was already ordering a whisky, and Serena knew exactly what the plan was – get hammered and forget tonight ever happened. But in the morning, the hangover would only serve as a reminder of the pain she felt now.

“Don't you dare, Serena Campbell.”

“What? Look after you?!”

“I'm a soldier, for crying out loud! I've been to war, and you reckon I can't handle myself! I don't need looked after.”

“Yes, you keep saying that, but your behaviour tells an entirely different story,” Serena hissed, trying not to let the whole bar know that they were in the middle of a fight.

Bernie downed the whisky and asked the barman – a young man in his early twenties – for another. “Serve her and I'll break your fingers!” she told the boy, who froze with the bottle of whisky in his hand. She turned to Bernie again. “I'm sorry, Bernie, but I can't let you do this. It isn't the answer.”

“Says the woman who thinks drinking is an Olympic sport and she's representing Britain in the finals!” Bernie retorted.

It was a fair point, and yet, it did not make Bernie's situation comparable to her own. “Please, just come back to the room and we can discuss it there.”

“No.” Bernie looked at the barman and said, “Ignore her and get me another whisky, please, and make it a double.”

The kid looked terrified, torn between two women, one an ex-soldier and one who just threatened to break his fingers. With a hopeless sigh, Serena told him, “Just put the bottle back on the shelf and listen to the one who's not already half-cut.”

“I'm not half-”

“Yes, you are!” Serena told her loudly, unable to keep her temper and voice low any longer.

“You don't trust me. You hid it from me because you don't trust me,” Bernie growled at her.

Serena was taken aback. Was that what made Bernie so angry? That she thought Serena didn't trust her? It wasn't that at all. Serena trusted Bernie implicitly, at least to be compassionate towards her. She hadn't mentioned it because she felt, what with having undiagnosed PTSD, Bernie had rather enough to be getting on with. “I didn't tell you because you had enough on your plate, and it was under control,” Serena said. “That's the only reason I didn't tell you. You were in enough pain as it was, and I knew that knowing I was ill would only make you feel worse. There was no point in telling you when there was no need to. Henrik was my back-up, and only because you were so wrapped up in surviving yourself that I couldn't put that on you.”

“Then why tell me now?”

“You've been tormenting me all night, Bernie. Little Miss Fully-Recovered? Seriously? Did you really think I wouldn't snap? My reputation isn't based on the idea that I have infinite levels of patience, you know. You've been horrible to me for hours, and I have no idea why.”

And that was it. Saying that broke something down in Bernie, and she simply burst into tears. Perhaps it was that she knew she had been intolerable tonight, or that it was her own intolerable pain that caused her to behave so unpleasantly. She sat down on the bar stool with her head in her hands, crying inconsolably. Serena sighed and put her arms around Bernie's shaking body, pulling her close so that she was crying into Serena's blouse.

The barman looked a bit like he had no idea what just happened, and Serena could only shoot him a small smile as an apology for making a scene in his bar. After all, threatening to break his fingers might have been going a little far, but she had needed to make sure he had no inclination to serve Bernie.

It was a full five minutes before Bernie stopped sobbing. When she quietened, Serena pulled up the nearest chair from a table and sat down, look up into Bernie's now-puffy face. “Are you going to tell me what the real problem is here?”

Bernie looked down at her hands. “I don't know. I just...I have this impulse to hurt you,” Bernie muttered. “My head wants me to push you out.”

“Bernie, this is the same part of your head that told you to jump off a building,” Serena gently pointed out.

“Fair point,” murmured Bernie. That was almost a smile there, Serena thought.

Serena held out her hand for Bernie to take, knowing that when they got back to the room, the little control they managed to reign over themselves here would be all but lost. The knowledge that a bar full of people could see them was all that kept Serena from breaking down and crying with Bernie; it hurt to see Bernie in such pain, and to feel like there was nothing she could do was killing her. She finally understood the position Edward had been in all those years ago. However, she intended to be a better ally to Bernie than Edward ever was to her.

Bernie got to her feet and took Serena's hand, and together they walked slowly back to their room. Serena could feel the warmth between them returning, gently washing over them as Bernie's walls began to drop to the ground again. Her heart was swelling with something she hadn't felt in a long time.

Bravery.

This, all this, had told her exactly what she wanted. She wanted never to lose Bernie. She wanted to hold Bernie whenever it was wanted or needed, and for Bernie to hold her. Everything she wanted was holding her hand right now. She was tired of being scared, of not acting on her feelings because she was worried about what she might lose. She was in no doubt of how she felt about Bernie, despite this being the first time she had ever felt romantically about a woman. After all, that realisation that she had fallen in love had almost got her hit by Henrik's car.

Serena unlocked the room door and pulled Bernie inside. “Why does your head keep telling you to push me away?” Serena asked her, her voice quiet.

“I don't know,” answered Bernie, her hand running back through her mess of blonde hair. “I just...it's better to hurt you now and get rid of you than make you think you can love me.”

“Well,” Serena huffed. “I've got bad news for you, then. You know the other day, I nearly got killed by Henrik's car, when I stopped in the middle of the road? It was because I'd realised something, and it hit me like a tonne of bricks.” Bernie was still, her body seemingly frozen to the spot. “I've already fallen in love with you, Berenice Wolfe. Don't ask me how or why, because I haven't a bloody clue. Do with that piece of information what you will. I'm going to bed.”

She walked away and picked up the pyjamas she had left on the bed. She took her box of medication Bernie had left on the bed and put it back in her handbag for tomorrow. With her back to Bernie, she changed into her pyjamas, while listening to Bernie's movements.

But Bernie had not moved at all. She had not moved from the spot in which she stood. When she turned back around to Bernie, even her facial expression – one of slightly drunken astonishment – had not changed. Had Serena just done more harm than good by being honest? Should she have just left it alone? Had her bravery been the undoing of one of her most cherished friendships?

Hesitantly, Serena stepped forwards. “Bernie, you need to get ready for bed.”

“Serena...”

“Come on,” Serena insisted, pulling Bernie to her suitcase and started digging through it. “Bloody hell, Bernie, who taught you to pack a case?” she laughed as she hauled out items of clothing that might as well have been in knots. “I thought soldiers were meant to be organised,” she giggled, unable to contain her amusement. Eventually, she pulled out a vest top and fleecy bottoms, and handed thrust them at Bernie.

Carrying on as normal was an important thing here, because she had to make Bernie believe that if she couldn't act on how Serena knew she felt, it was okay. That they were still them, still the best of friends. That nothing was going to change.

Serena went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth and hair, washed her face, took off her jewellery. Readied herself for bed, knowing that Bernie was in the middle of a perfect storm for a horrific nightmare – medication, alcohol and emotional upheaval did not mix well, as she knew herself. Tonight was the wrong moment to bring up how she felt about Bernie. She realised this now. She ought to have left it until Bernie was feeling better about everything, but it was the first time Serena had felt brave enough to say it out loud.

She closed her eyes for a moment before she went back into the bedroom. Bernie was standing there in front of the mirror, with her make-up already wiped off, her hair brushed, and her toothbrush out and ready for her to dive into the bathroom and brush her teeth.

Serena found herself alone in front of the mirror, and could see what she tried so hard to disguise. The fatigue was evident in her pale face, no longer masked by make-up. The hurt was in her eyes, all too clear to her. Yes, she was depressed. She was able to hide it very well, but she was depressed, and the only thing keeping her afloat was acknowledging that fact from a clinical standpoint.

Bernie appeared in the mirror behind her, and Serena realised only now that she was crying. She hadn't seen it looking in the mirror – she was well-practised in seeing only what was convenient when she looked at her reflection. She tore her gaze away from the glass and turned to Bernie, offering her a warm smile, despite feeling cold inside.


	4. Tired

She didn't know what to do when she woke up the next morning. Rather than make a decision at eight in the morning, she lay with her back to a sleeping Serena and let it all stew in her head. It was so much pressure. The pressure of having PTSD, the pressure of knowing Serena loved her, the pressure of knowing Serena was mentally ill. She almost wished Serena had held her silence. In fact, as awful as it made her feel about herself, Bernie _did_ wish that Serena had kept those pieces of information to herself. Bernie didn't need any added complications – she was finding plenty on her own.

Logically, she knew she had been foolish to ignore Serena's feelings for her, and hers for Serena; the longer the matter was left, the more intense their relationship became, and the more difficult it was to steer them towards an outcome thy could both live with. It had been staring her in the face for months. Henrik Hanssen had even pretty much outright said it. He had lost his temper over it, or as close to losing his temper as he ever was. He had effectively called them stupid for failing to notice it.

And still, here she was, consciously choosing to ignore Serena's love for her. It was partly because Bernie couldn't quite understand this love Serena held for her; beneath her act of confidence that bordered on arrogance, she searched for something to love, something worth loving, and found very little.

Silently, she slid out of bed and headed for the shower, wishing to rid herself of the scent of last night's alcohol, and all the heartache that went with it. She was tired, and not only because her sleep had been patchy at best. She was tired of being heartbroken. She was tired of being tired. She'd had more than enough of this life.

It was a familiar sensation of being drowned and cleansed as the jets of hot water hit her face. Timing her breathing so as not to inhale water was more difficult than she had ever recalled it to be, but she managed it, if only so as to leave Serena sleeping. Bernie needed some time without Serena's waking presence to work out what to do about this.

The problem here was that Bernie was not fit to look out for Serena when she could barely look out for herself. Even though Serena insisted she was treating this as something clinical, the same way one would treat an ear infection or tonsillitis, Bernie was perceptive enough to notice Serena's pain. Serena's ability to manage that pain did nothing to alleviate Bernie's sense of responsibility to the person upon whom she had been relying so greatly.

She caught herself thinking that thought, and hated herself a little bit more. Was that the only reason Bernie wished there was a way to help Serena? A sense of duty? Of a debt repaid? Weren't there more important reasons to wish she had the courage to stick by Serena? She was disgusted by the fact that her value for friendship, loyalty and love seemed to have gone out the window, replaced by a cold sense of responsibility, similar to the responsibility she felt for doing paperwork. What had she become?

Once she was ready and dressed, she picked up her bag and slipped out the door, leaving the room key with Serena. It was just almost ten o'clock now, and Serena obviously needed the sleep she was catching up on now. It wouldn't have been fair to wake her. No, Bernie decided she would go out and get breakfast for herself, and Serena could get up whenever she liked, and could do whatever she liked. It would probably be good for her to be free of the big ball of stress named Bernie Wolfe, too.

There was a small café near the hotel, where Bernie sat down and ordered coffee and a bacon roll, figuring that her head would kill her sooner than the bacon would. The time passed quickly, punctuated at regular intervals by a phone call or text from Serena, all of which Bernie ignored completely.

Serena wasn't one for giving up – that much was clear. It was becoming increasingly apparent that Bernie had underestimated this woman's determination. Some might call her downright stubborn. They were probably right. Even Jason acknowledged this, and he was no great shakes at reading other human beings.

It begged the question, why was Bernie trying to outdo Serena's stubbornness with her own? After all, if Serena won, Bernie actually had half a chance at happiness, but if Bernie won, she would only make the pair of them miserable. To anyone thinking rationally, it was a no-brainer. But Bernie could not think rationally at the moment, particularly about Serena, and she was tired of not being able to think with any sense.

But then, any chance of happiness depended upon Bernie's survival, and Bernie wasn't all that sure she wanted to survive a life marred by the horrors of war, and by the way her mind happened to process – or fail to process – those situations in which she had taken part. It was exhausting. Every ounce of her was exhausted. Even with the medication, it could hardly pass as bearable. Of course, Serena would argue that the medication hadn't been given time to kick in yet, but Bernie could already tell it was not going to do much good.

Serena, who knew how this worked, would tell her not to be presumptuous, that it needed time to work, that nobody was a lost cause. She would have told her to stop being so pessimistic and look at ways of getting herself better, even if the first attempt was a failure.

Perfect Serena, who had her mental illness in a cage, captive and under control. If she were to be honest with herself, Bernie was jealous of this ability of Serena's to regard her own pain with such objective coldness. What she wouldn't give to be able to do that.

And yet, the illness had escaped the cage last night. Only briefly, Bernie could have sworn she had seen the breakdown of confidence and strength in Serena's eyes last night. When she had turned away from the mirror and flashed Bernie a smile, it had been there. Depression had snared Serena Campbell, but Serena Campbell knew better than to succumb to its crushing jaws. She knew how to get out of the snare if ever she were caught in it. That was why she didn't need Bernie.

It was after twelve when Serena rang for the fifth time, and as she declined the call, Bernie realised that she had been allowed to sit there for two hours, ordering nothing else but coffee. She had to move. A walk was probably the best thing for her. To sit here was to leave herself vulnerable to discovery, anyway, as Serena was bound to come looking in here soon enough. Bernie knew she had to keep on the move.

So she stood up and she paid her bill, walking put the door just as her phone rang yet again. She was half-tempted to answer it just to tell Serena to bugger off and stop worrying over nothing. Even if she were to run, it was no great loss to anyone, least of all Serena. But as fortune – or lack thereof – would have it, to lose Serena would be a great loss to Bernie; this was why Bernie hated her head for telling her to walk away from Serena.

It seemed to be too much hassle, Bernie noted as she walked towards Princes Street Gardens. The fact was that Serena was ill, and Bernie was a walking car crash, so how the hell did this have a hope of working out? Love or not, Bernie didn't think she could handle her friendships, never mind anything else. It was too exhausting to keep trying to stay afloat in her relationships these days.

If it weren't for the problem that she was as in love with Serena as Serena claimed to be with her, she would have been on the first train home this morning. However, she did love Serena enough not to physically abandon her completely, even if she was going to abandon this woman in every other sense. This beautiful, smart, funny, sarcastic, problematic, kind, infuriating, loving, courageous woman. This woman that Bernie Wolfe had so stupidly allowed herself to fall for.

Why was it that circumstance always attempted to invalidate her love for women? With Alex, Army life had managed to tear them apart. Now, with Serena, their illness and fear refused to allow them a union. Was the universe trying to tell her something? Was it punishing her for shirking her responsibilities as a mother, and as a wife?

_Boom._

The noise rang out through the street down which Bernie walked. In an instant, she took cover behind a parked car, and looked around for a gunman, or – more likely – an explosion.

_She felt the car blown into the air, the explosion beneath them forcing their vehicle upwards from the ground. It rolled, and everyone inside rolled with it. The shouting was indistinguishable – too many voices at once – so Bernie roared above the babble that everyone should remain calm, and felt around for her radio._

_As she fumbled around, she felt the pain in her chest and neck, like her body might implode. The fear rushed through her, making the radio shake in her hands when she finally managed to find it._

_And with help on the way, she called out for Alex, but received no answer. She kept shouting out, but there was nothing. She ordered the man who had been sitting next to Alex to check on her._

“ _She's knocked out, ma'am, but she's breathing.”_

“ _Is everyone else okay?”_

_There was a disorganised reply of “Yes, ma'am.” Bernie, however, had to yell out in pain, and she knew she had sustained some serious injury._

“ _Are you alright, Major?”_

“ _No, Lieutenant. No, I think my neck is broken.”_

_She heard the approach of vehicles and just hoped it transported allies, rather than someone to finish them off. Blinded by the sun, she saw a woman's figure approach; she couldn't make out who this woman was as she ran towards them, but she wasn't in uniform. She wore a long coat and a scarf, and a pair of jeans and trainers._

“ _Bernie,” the woman called out._

“ _See to Dawson,” Bernie shouted back. “She's unconscious!”_

_But the woman ignored Bernie's request, and knelt at the shattered window of the overturned vehicle. She had a kind face, soft, with dark eyes and hair...the face of a healer._

“ _Bernie. It's me. Stand up.”_

“ _I've broken my neck, I'm sure of it.”_

“ _Your neck's not broken. Guy Self and Oliver Valentine patched you up, remember?”_

_Of course...she'd go to Britain. Surgeons in a British hospital would sort this out. The NHS, not the Army._

“Bernie!” Serena barked, slightly tapping Bernie's cheek. Bernie focused her gaze upon Serena, and recalibrated her position. This was Edinburgh. It wasn't Afghanistan. “Snap out of it.”

“But the bang-”

“The one o'clock gun, Bernie. You're in Edinburgh, remember? The gun goes off at one o'clock every day except Sunday. It's perfectly safe. _You_ are perfectly safe.”

Of course. Edinburgh. One o'clock. How could she have been so stupid as to forget about that? Kicking herself internally, she allowed Serena to help her to her feet. Only once they were standing did Bernie fully see Serena's face. Looking down into those dark, endless eyes, she saw the love Serena claimed to hold for her last night. It wasn't a lie. It wasn't something Bernie could walk away from, because she could not do that to Serena. Or to herself, for that matter. They could be friends, without ruining it. They were grown women; if anyone was capable of restricting and managing their relationship, it was them.

Bystanders who had milled around them began to disperse, satisfied that the crazy women who hid at the sound of an everyday sound was being looked after. “How...how did you find me?” Bernie asked of Serena. She had not seen Serena at all while she walked, or while she had been sat indoors. Surely she would have noticed her before now.

“I saw you coming out of that café and followed you down here. I had a feeling this might happen,” she admitted. “That's why I've been calling and texting you every twenty minutes for the past three hours. That's why I've been looking for you since I woke up.”

That was not the answer Bernie expected. “You were doing it for me, not for you?”

“Of course, Bernie. If I thought you were okay out here, I would have left you alone. I'm trying to do the best thing for you.”

It was one of those moments that caused Bernie to be overcome with a surge of love for Serena. In fact, she didn't think she had loved Serena more than she did right now, knowing that all that been in this woman's head was her welfare. Bernie, too tired to put this feeling into words, pulled Serena into the a tight hug, hoping to convey everything she could not say in one embrace.

And to Bernie's surprise, Serena reached up and kissed her gently on the lips. The world stopped. Time stood still. Energy rose within her. And, for a fleeting few moments, the knots in which Bernie Wolfe was tied up loosened.


	5. Descent

They spoke nothing of it. Not because it meant nothing or they thought nothing of it, but because it could not be clearer that neither of them had meant to cross that particular boundary. After all, how could it ever end well?

So they strived only to have a good day. The castle, and Dynamic Earth – Bernie had been determined to experience that, even if it meant a little bit of a sensory barrage at moments. Tonight was their last night in Edinburgh before heading to Perthshire; it was dawning on Bernie just how much driving was going to be involved in the next week. Not that she minded doing the rural stretches, but she did not enjoy driving in cities. She thought briefly if she could strike up some sort of deal that meant she would drive the long country roads and Serena took care of the towns and cities.

They got back to the hotel at about seven, both decidedly starving and neither really knowing what they wanted to eat. The only thing Bernie really knew was that she did not particularly want to sit on her own with Serena. Of course, she knew that she was going to have to at some stage tonight, but she wanted to prolong it as long as she could in the hope that Serena might be too tired to address what Bernie knew Serena wanted to address.

So they opted to go to the hotel's restaurant, where it was busy and loud, with plenty of distractions to divert attention from the fact Bernie was less than comfortable. She was perfectly comfortable with Serena; she trusted Serena so much that she had become at ease with her company in most respects. No, when made Bernie uncomfortable was that it was hanging over their heads. It was all around them that they could not run from the truth any more, and all Bernie wanted to do was run from the truth.

The night went by too quickly. This was in part due to Bernie's enjoyment of the meal and the company, and the dread of being alone with Serena in that room. She was almost tempted to go and see if there was a spare room available.

Bernie had agreed to go easy on the alcohol tonight, but Serena seemed to be drinking quite heavily for someone who was on antidepressants. All Bernie could say was, “You're not driving tomorrow.”

“Why not?” Serena demanded sharply.

“Keep drinking like that and you'll still be over the limit when we leave for Pitlochry. The drink driving limit is lower here than in England.”

“No, it's not,” scoffed Serena.

Bernie raised her eyebrows, and noted that was typically a Serena move – perhaps some habits were rubbing off on her. “Yes, it is. They decided to lower it a couple of years ago. They did it in December so it might have discouraged drink-driving after Christmas parties.”

“How do you know this?”

“Raf told me.”

Serena stared at her for a moment and then replied, “Well, looks like you're driving tomorrow.”

Bernie only smiled slightly, hoping to disguise the worry that Serena might go off the rails if she was going to continue like this tonight. Was this was Bernie had done last night that got Serena so worked up? There was one big difference between their drunken behaviours: Serena was being perfectly pleasant.

On reflection, Bernie had been a total and utter bitch last night. She could even pinpoint the moment her mood took a nosedive. When Serena had told her off for joking about committing suicide, something in Bernie's head told her to make Serena stop caring, even at the cost of hurting her best friend. She had always known she had a cruel streak a mile long. She just hadn't known that she was this capable of using it.

It was a quiet evening. They talked, but they talked about nothing. They joked as Serena got progressively more drunk; soon enough the meal was finished and Serena had had more than enough to drink for one night, so they had the meal billed to their room and slowly ambled up there. Serena had taken the three-quarters of a bottle of wine they had left unfinished with them, refusing to waste decent wine.

With caution, Bernie took Serena arm in arm, if for nothing else but to make sure she stayed upright while walking. Was this how it had to be? Were they going to take turns on getting wasted on alternate nights?

And as Serena fumbled with the room key and Bernie had to take it from her, the realisation fell upon her; although Serena chose to deal with being ill very differently, Serena still was mentally ill, perhaps even severely so. There was no escaping it, for either of them.

“Come on,” Bernie smiled slightly, taking Serena's handbag and putting it down on the floor. “Bedtime.”

“Yes, Major,” Serena grinned. Unprepared, Bernie felt herself being pulled until she collided with Serena, the kisses fervent and uncoordinated. It was tempting. The idea of feeling so loved, so wanted...not to mention that Serena was so undeniably beautiful. The message was loud and clear. Finally, Bernie understood that when Serena Campbell had said she was in love, she had meant every word.

Bernie knew this kiss. She had known the kiss on the street, too. They were the two extremes of being in love.

Serena Campbell was damn well in love with her.

Lost in Serena, in the messiness of being utterly in love, Bernie remembered that this could not happen. At least, not tonight. Not while Serena was so drunk she probably wouldn't recall any of this in the morning. “Serena,” Bernie forced out between kisses. “Serena, stop. You're drunk.”

“I know what I'm doing,” mumbled Serena, trying to drag Bernie back into the embrace.

“No, Serena, you're too drunk for this. It's...” Bernie began, trying to choose her words carefully. “It's not the way to do it. You said you love me. Do you really want the first time we have sex be down to the fact you were drunk?” Serena just stared at her, and it was clear to see she was struggling to focus on Bernie's face. “More to the point, don't you want to remember it the next morning?” she smiled, trying to convince Serena that this was the best way to proceed.

Serena sighed. “Guess you're right,” she conceded, though Bernie could see it was with reluctance. Bernie bowed her head and buried her face in Serena's hair, inhaling the scent she had come to know so well – though, tonight, it was polluted with more alcohol than usual.

Admittedly, Serena's level of alcohol consumption, and often reliance, worried Bernie at times. It seemed to be her answer to everything, and she could see how it could quite easily spiral if it were combined with mental illness. But Serena was not a child, and she was mentally ill, not mentally incompetent. All Bernie could do was try and keep her on a reasonably sober path. That is, she could only try and keep Serena from descending into alcoholism.

Serena wrapped her arms around Bernie, and Bernie squeezed her tightly in return. In the past nine hours, something had cleared from her head. She could tell that Serena's love for her was very much real, and that it was not simply a strategy to keep Bernie alive. On the contrary, it was because Serena loved her that she tried so hard to save her. It was the only rational explanation that made any sense.

“I love you,” Serena murmured, her voice quite sluggish with the interference of alcohol.

Bernie squeezed her eyes tight and tried to say it back, but she just couldn't do it. She never had been any good at this sort of thing. Instead, she held Serena tighter and hoped to all the gods that her bone-crushing embrace said all that she couldn't verbalise.

She released Serena and searched the room for her pyjamas and her make up wipes. It took her a full minute to find the face wipes; Serena had left them beside the television for some unfathomable reason. With a roll of her eyes, Bernie turned around with the retrieved items in her hands. However, the sight that met her left her horrified. Serena was drinking from the bottle of wine she had taken from the restaurant. “Serena, no!” Bernie shouted. She crossed the room in two great strides and snatched the bottle from Serena's hands. It was empty, apart from the dregs swishing about in the bottom of the bottle. And she'd already had most of the previous bottle to herself at dinner, too. “You've just downed nearly a whole bottle of wine!” she yelled, more out of shock and fright than anger. “Did you take your medication today?” Bernie demanded.

“Of course I did!” Serena retorted, but she was barely coherent at this stage. “I'm not stupid.”

“Did the word 'stupid' leave my mouth?” Bernie asked.

“No,” Serena grudgingly answered. She took a step towards Bernie but fell; Bernie reached out and caught her, while Serena giggled and said, “Sorry.”

Bernie groaned, knowing she couldn't leave Serena in this state. She got Serena to sit on the bed and, with a great deal of effort, managed to get her out of her clothes and into her pyjamas. She wiped the make up off her face, and took her through to the bathroom, closed the toilet lid over, and sat her down. Grabbing the toothbrush and toothpaste, she said, “Open your mouth,” and proceeded to brush Serena's teeth. She didn't like the idea of the remnants of that wine sitting in her mouth all night, eating away at her teeth.

It was almost, Bernie noted, like having a young child to look after. This descent, in the space of two hours, was downright terrifying.

She was certain she had not been in anywhere near this state last night.

That bottle of wine was taking effect, and Serena was becoming more drunk by the second. Bernie could only guess that this was intensified by Serena's medication, and that was why it was having such an effect so quickly.

Bernie rinsed the toothbrush out and put it back up beside her own; she reached down and took Serena's face in her hands. That drunken face let her pain shine through. The depression seeped into her dark brown eyes, glassy from the drink and sorrowful from the head. To see that was enough to break Bernie's heart. To know there was very little she could do to help was even worse. All she could really do was try her best to look after Serena, and tonight that meant getting her drunken arse into bed without incident.

She shook her head in slight disbelief as she got Serena to her feet and brought her to bed, eventually getting her to lie down, so she could get ready for bed herself. She got changed and washed her face and brushed her teeth, and she left the bathroom door open so she could hear in Serena tried to move herself.

Thankfully, she stayed put, though Bernie could tell that, by nothing short of a miracle, she was still conscious. She had to have built up quite a tolerance to still be awake.

Bernie turned out the light and climbed into bed, hoping against all hope that tonight would be nightmare-free. The last thing she needed to do was spook an ill and drunk Serena in the middle of the night.

What was going on in Serena's head that possessed her to drink this much? To drink nearly a whole bottle of wine in one go? She had seemed okay. She had been talking and smiling, and she had been watching Bernie's back since the moment she found her on the street at one o'clock. And then at dinner, bam, that was it. Serena started drinking and she didn't stop. More worryingly, she seemed to have no inclination to stop, even when she had been stumbling to the room, relying heavily on Bernie so as not to fall over. Even when she was already fairly drunk, she had gone and had most of the second bottle anyway.

It wasn't something Bernie could let lie. It had to be discussed, for Serena's own good. But tonight was not the time, for it would be pointless to argue about being drunk with someone who was drunk. There was no sense to be had from Serena right now, and Bernie wasn't fool enough to try and drag any out of her.

The silence broke with a sob, and Bernie closed her eyes, bracing herself for this alcohol-infused, emotional version of Serena Campbell. She had almost expected this display of exaggerated emotion, and she was certain it would be for some silly drunken reason.

But the next noise shocked her. It was not a sob. It was a cry of utter misery, like a stake to the heart and a bullet to the gut. Bernie sighed and pulled Serena close. “It's okay,” she muttered. Serena didn't answer. All she did was cry into Bernie's chest. “Next time, just tell me,” Bernie whispered into Serena's forehead. “Tell me it hurts and I'll try to help in any way I can. Don't try and hide it from me by getting so drunk you can't walk.”

Eventually, there was a cough of, “Sorry,” from Serena.

“Oh, don't be sorry,” Bernie said. In that instant, she was terrifyingly aware that tears were falling down her own cheeks. How could it be that she loved Serena enough that her pain caused Bernie pain? “Don't be sorry. It's okay. It's not your fault you feel like this. None of it is your fault. It just happens. I know it hurts but I promise you're going to be okay.”


	6. Life or Death

The next morning was horrific.

After much arguing – mainly because Serena felt like she'd been hit by a train, and she felt like jumping in front of one – they managed to get out of the hotel just before the housekeeper got to their room for changeover. Serena was very much in a mood for being completely and utterly unhelpful. Hungover, she fell asleep as they were leaving Edinburgh, and woke up as Bernie tried to manoeuvre from the M90 onto the Broxden roundabout.

“For Christ's sake, Bernie!” Serena snapped, her head pounding as horns beeped and drivers got frustrated. “All that military training and you can't bloody drive!”

“I was trained for dodging snipers and IEDs, not trying to get onto the Broxden roundabout while men in white vans blast their horns!” she retorted, swinging the car onto the circle. She came off the circle and onto the A9. Well, at least that ordeal was over with. “We're going to be too early for the hotel,” Bernie pointed out. “Arrival time is four, and we're going to be there before two.”

Serena ignored this. It wasn't her problem to solve. Bernie wanted to drive, so she could deal with that. In the periphery of her vision, Serena caught Bernie shaking her head, and was tempted to take her to task for it. In the end, though, she decided it wasn't worth the effort. Bernie could hate her, for all Serena cared.

For about twenty minutes, they travelled in a silence broken only by the local radio station.

“Serena,” Bernie began; Serena could hear the caution, almost fear, in her voice. She'd never thought of herself as sadistic until now. “I think you need to stop drinking so much.”

“Pot and kettle.”

“I'm not the one who drank nearly a whole bottle at once last night.”

Serena rolled her eyes.

“Stop it, Serena,” Bernie said. “You _know_ you were dangerously drunk last night. You tried to...” she hesitated. This reluctance caught Serena's attention. What had she tried to do last night? “You...you tried to get me to have sex with you.”

Serena froze. Had she acted upon that thought? It had definitely crossed her mind at several points last night – at least, during the portion of the evening she could remember in any detail – but she hadn't made any move on Bernie. Had she?

“You're lying,” Serena rigidly said.

“I'm not. I talked you out of it and put you to bed.”

“Stop the car,” Serena ordered her.

“I can't! I'm in the middle of the A9, for God's sake!”

“Bernie!”

“Serena, stop this!” Bernie shouted. “I cannot and will not stop the car on the A9. Damn road is dangerous enough when you're not being a-” Bernie cut herself off.

“A what?!” Serena snarled, impatient with Bernie's impatience.

Bernie did not give an answer. Instead, she indicated off the A9, seemingly holding her temper to herself. However, from the look on Bernie's face, Serena just knew that it wouldn't take much to push Bernie over her limit. And today, Serena was in the mood to push her companion to the limit of her tolerance. Bernie needed to know what she was dealing with here, and she needed to realise she had to put herself before Serena.

Remaining slient, Bernie drove across a bridge over the Tay, and into the town of Dunkeld.

“What are you doing?” demanded Serena, knowing enough to know their planned route bypassed Dunkeld.

“Feeding you.”

“I'm not hungry,” Serena replied. It was that immature knee-jerk reaction to being offered anything whilst in a bad mood. It was the sort of thing Elinor had done as a teenager.

But Bernie did not listen. She drove through the town, and parked on Bridge Street. “Come on. We both need to take our medication, too.”

Serena looked down at her bag. She had not taken her medication yesterday. She was not, however, stupid enough to tell Bernie that. If last night had taught her anything, it was that she didn't want to fight. She was tired of being a fighter. She'd fought this illness too many times to want to buckle up and do it again. Hope was easier lost than it was found.

The problem now was that she would not be able to avoid taking her medication while in Bernie's presence. It seemed that Bernie currently considered Serena to be in her care, and that Serena was fragile, unable to be responsible for her own welfare. It was a bit rich, really, coming from a woman who had tried to commit suicide, who had almost not sought treatment for PTSD, to treat Serena Campbell like she was going about her own life in the wrong way.

Bernie, after all, had been the one who had been discouraging of Serena's initial approach to fighting depression. She had been unable to condone the way Serena treated her own illness, and it had made Serena realise that maybe her approach wasn't working. Maybe Bernie was right; maybe being cold and clinical about it was not effective.

So she was not going to numb herself with prescribed drugs and an ignorance of her own feelings. She was going to make herself feel this. Too often, she treated her depression with a pre-emptive strike at its first manifestation. It meant that she had been lucky enough never to end up in the throes of the storms she drowned in as a young woman, but it also meant she had lost some of the understanding she'd had of how she felt things. How she felt life.

Soon, they had been in and out of a chip shop, and Bernie had driven down through the town, into a small car park. “What-”

“Stanley Hill. We're taking a walk.”

“Why?” Serena asked, suspicious of Bernie's motives. After all, what good would traipsing around with a bag of chips do?

“Stretch our legs.” Bernie parked the car, dug out her medication and took it. “Where's yours?”

“Oh,” Serena said. She rifled through her handbag, her hand on her box of pills, unwilling to take it out. Could she get away with lying and saying she had lost them? Would Bernie believe her? Did she really want to avoid her medication that badly?

Yes. Yes, she did.

Serena pushed the box through the bag's contents, so it was hidden at the bottom, lurking beneath a debris of a purse, make-up, perfume, a mirror, a bag of M&Ms, empty sweet packets, a full water bottle and an empty one.

“Damn it,” she sighed. “They aren't here. I must have lost them last night.”

She looked up at Bernie, who was studying her carefully. Serena had to believe Bernie didn't believe a word was what she was saying. “They've got to be there.”

“Well, they're not.”

Before Serena could protest, Bernie took her bag and got out the car. She emptied the contents of Serena's handbag on the driver's seat and, of course, out fell the antidepressants. “Here they are,” Bernie said, handing her the small cardboard box. Serena did not take it. “Serena, come on. You know better than anyone that you need to take your medication.”

She looked out the window, choosing to watch the clouds pool overhead rather than look in Bernie's direction. She didn't want to see how desperate Bernie felt for her. She already knew. It was, after all, exactly what Serena felt for Bernie. Fear, desperation, concern...love. But she did not need to remind herself that she had been stupid enough to let herself fall in love. She did not need the reminder that – apparently – she had made an advance on Bernie last night.

“Serena,” sighed Bernie, as Serena listened to her repack the handbag. “I know you want to do it alone. And it would be wonderful to be able to beat this without drugs – and maybe someday you will – but for the moment, while we are on the road and you are vulnerable to your depression taking over, please, just take the medication. Just to keep it at bay. If you want to come off it, you can see your GP when we get home.”

Serena finally looked at Bernie. It was sincere. The concern and the care were real. And at this stage, Serena was not quite sure what drive her to question it at all.

Defeated, but almost gladly so, she took the box of pills from Bernie and swallowed her dose. If it put Bernie's mind at ease, she was willing to take it, if only until they got back to Holby. Bernie didn't need any added stress. She had been selfish to try this at all, knowing that Bernie always saw through her, and always worried for Serena before herself.

In silence, Serena got out of the car and started to walk towards the entrance to the footpath. It was a pretty place; that, she could not deny. It was a man-made hill, landscaped by a landowner, but still nice. Bernie caught up with her and thrust a bag of chips upon her. Serena gratefully took it, for she was hungrier than her pride permitted her to confess.

“Why don't you want to take your medication?” Bernie quietly asked. They were nearing the top of the hill now, having walked silently for a few minutes.

“I don't want to go numb,” admitted Serena, though she would not look at Bernie as she spoke. “Depression will do that for me anyway. But I don't want to drug myself into oblivion to avoid it completely. That's not living.”

“But it is surviving.”

“Survival isn't enough. It's life or death for me. I don't want to just survive again. I've done it too often now.”

“Perhaps,” Bernie allowed, “but then, your answer to it is to drink. It might be selfish, but I'd rather see you survive on prescribed and relatively safe medication than descend into alcoholism.”

Serena sighed. “I'm not an-”

“But you could easily become one. You drink a lot already; it's a slippery slope when you're in pain.”

It was a point she could not argue with. And really, deep down, she knew this. Alcoholism had taken her husband without her knowledge. He was surviving it, though she remained unconvinced that he was completely dried out. She was not unlike Edward in some respects. She knew that. She knew she had that tendency to hit the bottle. But Edward, as far as she knew, was not depressed. Not to the extent she was.

However, she was loathe to admit that she was anything like Edward.

They reached the top of Stanley Hill, and Serena peered over. It was higher than she had expected, with needles from the surrounding trees coating the soil. The air was cool and fresh, the scent of rain was falling upon her, somewhat liberating her from her hangover. Her headache was dying.

But so was she.

She closed her eyes, scrunched up her empty chip papers and spread her arms out slightly. The first drops of rain fell, cold on her exposed face and hands. The heavier it was, the cleaner she felt. She could have stayed there forever, if given the chance.

“Watch yersel', lass!” came the voice of an older woman, as the sound of running footsteps approached. But it was too late.

She was already tumbling down the hill, needles scraping her back and hands, Bernie's body slamming into hers, until they halted with a thud at the bottom of the hill. She opened her eyes, only to find her surroundings blurred as she rolled down the slope, and she was somewhat thankful for the sodden earth below her.

“Bairns!” the woman roared.

Serena fumbled around for Bernie. “You alright?” she asked.

“Yeah,” grumbled Bernie. “You?”

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Serena said, though she winced slightly. Her hands, left cheek and back stung where twigs and needles had scraped her on the way down.

“Kids, eh?”

“Bloody kids.”

She looked up and found Bernie covered in dirt and needles, her face scraped up one side and her hair an utter shambles. Serena didn't want to know what she looked like right now. It was probably a bit of a horror story. Bernie reached out and brushed the detritus out of Serena's hair, so she returned the favour; thankfully, Bernie paid so little attention to her hair that, once the debris was out of the blonde locks, there wasn't much repair work to be done.

A woman in her mid-sixties was rushing towards her, two boys of about seven and ten at her heels. “I am so sorry,” she panted. “My grandsons can be-”

“It's alright,” Bernie smiled. “Boys will be boys.”

“Accidents happen. No harm done,” added Serena, and the relief upon the woman's face was evident.

The two boys approached and said in unison, “Sorry.”

“Don't worry,” Serena replied, getting to her feet and brushing herself off. “Just try and watch where you're running next time, okay?”

“Yes,” answered the older of the boys. Without any doubt that they were forgiven, they ran off back up the hill, their grandmother looking rather weary as she followed them.

Once they were alone, Serena turned to Bernie and said, “Well, that woke me up.”

Bernie laughed, and the sound was contagious. Unable to hold it in, Serena let herself giggle like an idiot. Maybe she was dying, but this was the most alive she had felt in a long time.


End file.
